Patch
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: There is a reason she took his patch. Oneshot.


**So, this may be my first and only fiction for _The Breakfast Club_. I just saw it yesterday, and I cannot get it out of my head. Allison especially. Anyway, I don't normally write fanfic for movies, because I feel like the pureness of them will be smudged by these made-up tales. I do, however, love the AndyAllison pair, and the fanfics that have been written (only four?). So, if this'll be my last, it's a good last. So, may the Breakfast Club never leave you, as I hope it'll never leave me.**

The ripping sound didn't leave Andy's ears. It was a sound that was hard to get out; the sound of fabric being torn away. He could see the vacancy on his varsity jacket from where Allison had ripped his patch off, the patch that proclaimed him a state champion in wrestling. It'd been sewn on with much pride and given to him to prove his excellence—but inside it just proved he relied far too much on self-fulfilling prophecies. "_You'll be number one! You have to win, win, win!_" His father's voice was as difficult to rid himself of as the ripping sound. Except his dad's voice was bad; the ripping sound was good.

What had she wanted it for? What did she do with it? It didn't represent any good part of him. As said before, it only symbolized his need to please others. She hadn't even liked him when she learned he was _that jock_—or maybe she had. She didn't talk much for awhile. The mere fact was that each had somehow grown for the other, in subtle ways, silent ways. They were an even more surprising pair than Claire and Bender, for many good girls yearned for the bad boy. When the roles were switched, you couldn't do much but watch and see.

But as a bad girl (or whatever she was, because "bad" didn't fit her personality) one wouldn't think she'd be so beautiful. It wasn't as if Andy hadn't noticed before that white blouse and removal of the eyeliner—she was just two kinds of beautiful. The mysterious, quirky, black beautiful, and then the shy, insecure, white beautiful. Either way—and kiss or no kiss after detention was over—he wouldn't have been able to get her out of his head.

She kind of had that effect on people.

The patch, though, the _patch_, had been his, and now it was hers. He just wanted to know why she had wanted the possession of it. Allison knew why. That patch had not only been his property, but also a part of him. She was showing him that he didn't need it; but more so, that she was taking him into her, combining them even as they came from different worlds, and that she would cleanse him. His obedience to his father would be destroyed through her, because she knew he shouldn't do that. And he would help her, in all of her bad hobbies like lying and hiding. He didn't know it; but he would.

As for Allison, Monday was a day to strive toward, but also to fear, for her plan for that STATE CHAMPION patch was one that could endanger her and Andy, mainly him—_she_ didn't have anything to lose, except, of course, him. If she lost him, she wondered if she'd fall back into that habit of wearing bag lady clothing and going to detention because she felt like it.

She tucked the patch away into her pocket, even as her mother questioned why she had ripped it off the boy's jacket in the first place. Fortunately (and unfortunately), the subject was dropped after Mrs. Reynolds grew bored with her daughter's explanation of "He's my friend", and nothing else was said. At home, she tossed her bag onto her bed along with the patch. Then, she had dug around in the abyss known as her bag, for she knew every item she had tossed in there ever since the idea of running away occurred to her, at thirteen. Once she found a needle, and a ball of twine, she set to work.

Monday came, and came swiftly; Allison—the silent basket case who sat in the back of the English room doodling dark pictures—became an object of fascination amongst the students of Shermer High. Her name was whispered, her story told (in positive and negative ways), and through it all she simply walked as she always had down the hall. She still hung her head, allowing hair to conceal her face, though the headband stopped that at once. Her hips were jolty, her feet were close together, pointed at a crooked angle, and her socks still didn't match the rest of her. But, to everybody who had seen her as "that weird girl", all these eccentricities were dismissed by the pure beauty that was buried beneath them all.

Even as the crowds parted for her like the Red Sea, she didn't cordially greet anyone, not even Brian as he sucked water from the drinking fountain. Instead, she just moved forward, like a graceless angel, until she saw that familiar varsity jacket—the one among others without a patch.

Andy shut his locker door as his friends continued to praise him for his bad deed from last week. He ignored their delighted acclaims, instead just removing his books and trudging away. From seven o'clock until now, he had to endure inquiry about his missing patch. He replied that it must've been his mom, knowing there'd be an onslaught of jeers and questions if he told of the real culprit.

And then, he found his missing patch. It was as it had been on his jacket, and in her hand, but now it was sewn to a new owner: Allison's bag. Where there had first been nothing but a dull gray pattern, the bold letters of his champion title glowed from her side. Allison had sewn his patch onto her bag—if that wasn't better than a promise ring, he didn't know what was.

"Hey, man, that's…that's _yours_, ain't it?" questioned one of the other wrestlers, directing a finger Allison's way. Without a word, Andy left them, going toward her. She stopped when she saw him; was that a smile on her face, or a grimace?

"Al-Allison?" he said, scrunching his brow.

"An-Andy?" she replied, mimicking his stutter. Nervously, he swiveled his head to look around them; many eyes were watching. He had the instinctive desire to accuse her of theft, and to reject her as another piece of trash in the school; but he couldn't. Claire may've thought she'd been right, but Andy realized she wasn't. At least not toward him. At the same time, she'd been referring to Brian, not Allison. It was possible he would've betrayed his friendship with Brian—but this connection, this relationship, with Allison? There was no way he could bear to have that done.

Unsure of what should be appropriately done, Andy gestured to her bag. "I see you kept my patch." She gave him that openmouthed grin, an indication she would speak. It was odder than Claire's coy, lips-only grin; but Allison was odder than Claire, and Andy couldn't deny he'd been waiting for someone with mannerisms like that.

"Why not?" she asked, "Might as well keep my heart somewhere." Andy swallowed; Allison spoke in strange and metaphoric tones he couldn't properly understand.

"I thought you said when you grow up, your heart dies." he said, not meaning for it to come out so accusing. But Allison didn't look offended.

"Then I should let my heart's life be a good one, shouldn't I?" she said. Andy shrugged; she was right, of course, in her dark way, but he couldn't bring himself to admit that.

They stood there, two amongst dozens, in the hallway. There were no words spoken, no movements made. She stared at him, and he stared back. Then, with the tips of her chewed-up fingernails, she touched his hand. He responded in the only way he could: he clasped his hand around hers. She smiled (openmouthed, again) before taking him down the hall. He followed, his palm one with hers, and instantaneously he was reminded of the canonization of the Breakfast Club, only two days ago. There he'd met Allison, Brian, Bender, and Claire. There they'd created friendships, pulled out inner demons, and faced off with powers not their own to control. There he'd kissed her, not caring that the feelings had only sprung a moment ago, that her mother could see, that _his_ _father_ could see. Why wouldn't he do it now, uncaring still?

And he did, even with the whispers and gasps and punishment by detention for the inappropriate display in the hall. Just the word—detention—made the kiss better. Little did these teachers know that this "public display of affection" was influenced by this punishment. They had led the path for the Breakfast Club. For him. For Allison. For them.

His and Allison's eyes met, just before the bell rang. It was evident in their gazes that they were saying "See you in detention later?", and both gazes replied "Wouldn't miss it". Allison then fondly stroked the patch as Andy galloped away. This patch was a part of her bag now. This patch was a part of her. This patch had been a part of Andy. They were a part of each other.

They were a part of the Breakfast Club.


End file.
